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Syrupy light from the rising sun slips through the window like a hot knife through butter, pooling in the darkest crevices of your kitchen until the tiles are molten. A bunch of sweet-smelling posies undulate on the windowsill — fresh ones that Grace had brought home the other week to cheer you up after a rough day at work. Your apartment looks perfectly lived in, with shoes strewn haphazardly across the hallway, technicolour magnets askew on the fridge and a cosmos of cartoonish stickers tacked between family photos on the wall.
Pancake batter bubbles in a hissing pan and it sweetens the air. You hum in tandem with the whispering radio, mindful to keep quiet so you don't wake anyone — a full night of uninterrupted sleep is rare in this house, after all.
Dawn crests the horizon, streaking the rosy sky with rays that coil like tangerine peels. You'd woken up unreasonably early and decided that it'd be more worthwhile to get a head start on breakfast, rather than tossing and turning until your alarm went off.
The pancake stacks plated up beside you are steadily growing. You fill the sink with soapy water while you wait for the next few to cook, content to soak the dishes and watch the honeysuckle sunrise. You're absorbed in the rhythm of your own little world - meaning that don't notice the creaking floorboards behind you, nor the featherlight footsteps that are slowly advancing across the kitchen...
An arm wraps around your waist. The perpetrator's hands are freezing and goosebumps spark across your skin wherever her touch meanders, eliciting a small gasp from you.
"You're up early."
Grace's voice is still heavy with sleep, her eyes half-lidded and bleary as she buries her face into the crook of your neck. She sounds a little disgruntled — she prefers to wake up knowing that you're within arm's reach. Safe.
"Sorry, honey," you murmur, freeing a hand from the pan to clasp her forearm. "Didn't want to wake you. How'd you sleep?"
She shrugs. "Better than usual," Grace answers shortly.
You hum in response and melt back into her, lazily flipping the pancakes every so often. It's nice to have her close like this.
Ever since she came home to you, all bruised and shaken, Grace has been noticeably clingier than usual — the very same Grace who used to hate PDA and would squirm awkwardly when you so much as held her hand in front of somebody else.
It started with the smallest gestures. Her pinkie intertwining with yours in a crowded room, or a hand slipping up the back of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin pressed up against hers. Anything to ground her in the present after a rough nightmare or panic attack, to tether her to something that feels real and tangible and secure.
Even now, stood in the dying dregs of sunrise, her thumb absentmindedly finds your pulse point. Her breathing seems to even out when she feels that rhythm, beating beneath your skin like a metronome, and she relaxes against you.
"Is Emily still asleep?" you ask.
That was another thing that changed following Grace's return. There was a little girl who she had rescued from the care facility with no home, no family, nowhere to go. Her and Grace were practically attached at the hip for the first few weeks they were home, clearly trauma bonded by whatever they'd been through that night.
In all honesty, it didn't take a lot of convincing for you to let Emily stay. You have a thing for taking in strays, apparently...
Grace hums against your neck in response and you can't suppress the shiver that runs through you. Her cold hands begin to wander, apparently hellbent on distracting you from making breakfast.
She kisses her way up to your jaw, a smile curving against the sensitive skin beneath your ear when you squirm. Almost as a reflex, your head tips back, bearing the column of your neck to the grinning sun beyond the window panes.
"Grace—"
She manages to tear herself away for a moment, fixing you in place with her stare — pale and glacial as the misted surface of a lake, rippling with admiration. It takes everything in you not to shy away from her scrutiny.
She tilts her head, smiling fondly as she takes you in. "Hey, you've got a little something..." Grace says.
Her thumb brushes some flour from your cheekbone. It must’ve gotten there when you were making the batter. You hadn’t noticed.
"Thank you, my love."
She stammers a little, choking on her words. That lazy, early morning confidence from before dissipates entirely and her cheeks burn a furious scarlet.
Never gets old.
Smiling sappily, you cup her face with your free hand, nudging your nose against hers as you lean in to kiss her. Your hand winds into her hair and she lets out a soft groan when you pull at the roots. That seems to snap whatever restraint was drawn taut between the two of you...
Grace traces the seam of your lips with her tongue in an attempt to deepen the kiss. She tastes like spearmint and neediness, mapping you with intention, almost as if she'd been dreaming about this very moment. A low hum resonates from deep within her throat.
You draw back as far as she'll allow (which isn't very far), muffling a laugh against her mouth. "The pancakes are gonna burn," you warn.
"Mm, I don't care," she replies, chasing your lips.
Her fingertips dance across the slope of your waist, beginning to map out the familiar slopes and ridges. They slide beneath the waistband of your pyjamas, her callouses crooking around your hipbones tantalisingly and beginning to dip even lower—
"Ew," a small voice pipes up from the doorway. "You guys are gross."
The two of you jolt apart like you've been burned. You clear your throat and hone in on flipping the pancakes to excuse the blush on your face, while Grace leans back (not so) casually on the countertop. She scrambles to grab a mug so that she can hide her flustered expression behind the rim.
You snort. Smooth.
Bracketed by the doorframe, Emily stands with her nose wrinkled in disgust and an arm wrapped protectively around the Build-A-Bear that Leon had gotten her as an early birthday present. Her pale blonde hair is ruffled from sleep, sticking up in every direction as she stifles a yawn.
Emily pads into the kitchen, her fluffy slippers muffling the slap of her footsteps against the tiles. She hops up onto one of the chairs at the table without another word.
"Good morning to you, too," Grace teases.
"Yeah, g'morning, angel," you add, clearing your throat. "I'm sorry if we woke you."
"It's okay. I was up anyways," Emily says blearily. Her feet begin to swing since they can't quite reach the ground, legs kicking back and forth beneath her absentmindedly. "Are you making pancakes?"
"Mhm. I hope you're hungry."
Emily seems to perk up at that — pancakes are her favourite. A smile brightens up her face, revealing her crescent dimples and the little gap in her grin from the tooth she'd lost the other day.
"Just so long as Grace didn't help you make them this time," she chirps.
Grace scoffs. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That you can't cook," you cough behind your fist.
Emily nods solemnly. "They tasted like charcoal the last time you made 'em."
"And how would you know what charcoal tastes like, young lady?"
Emily mumbles something unintelligible. You share an amused, sidelong glance with Grace.
"Okay, stop distracting me," you laugh, swatting your girlfriend with the spatula. "These are almost ready."
Hands raised in surrender, Grace presses a parting kiss to your temple before dragging herself away.
She rounds the kitchen table and pulls out the free chair next to Emily. Then, she reaches across the table to grab her reading glasses and one of the books they'd adopted from the local library.
"How about we read a little while Mom makes your breakfast, hm?"
"Okay," Emily says softly.
Your heart melts a little at the sight of them. They lean against each other, shoulder to shoulder, crowding together to focus on the book. Grace has her glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose and there's a tiny furrow between Emily's brows as she concentrates on the words.
The two of you had been homeschooling Emily, considering that she's never been properly socialised with other kids (aside from the ones in the facility — you dread to think about it) and it would be unfair to throw her in at the deep end with a brand new school.
When Grace feels your stare, she glances up to catch your eye, giving you a crooked smile. You set two plates before them and hastily turn away to smother the twitching of your own lips.
It wasn't easy to create your little safe haven, what with all that transpired a few months ago. There was a lot of work that went into building up a fortress where they'd both feel safe — one with night lights, warm embraces and several locks bolted onto the front door.
You don’t like to dwell on it but it did hurt you, to see her like that. Grace barely slept for the first two weeks, caught in a strange limbo between haunted dreams and paranoid wakefulness. You can't even begin to imagine the horrors that face her when she closes her eyes.
And, sure, they’re both still burdened by everything that they've been through (their routine nightmares more than enough to evidence that) but the three of you are managing, and that's enough.
You watch as Emily squints down at the storybook, deciphering the page with Grace's help. You take in the toys strewn in between imposing stacks of Grace's paperwork, the cartoonish crayola scribbles pinned to the fridge. You gaze at all the mismatched, patchwork evidence of your unconventional family where it has taken root within your apartment...
And, in that moment, you can't imagine being anywhere more perfect.